


The History Books forgot about us (And the Bible didn't mention us)

by AnEarHat



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, M/M, Sadness, and i made him say The Thing don't look at me, enjolras is completely broken, grantaire is immeasurably concerned, nothing too bad but just in case, this is mostly just sadness and has the tiniest bit of e/R, tw for self harm, what even is happiness i don't remember any more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnEarHat/pseuds/AnEarHat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What becomes of a leader with nobody to lead?</p><p>'He thought the world around him was probably silent again, but he could hear the screams now, muted as they were before by unshakable focus, and behind them he could hear the laughter of times past.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The History Books forgot about us (And the Bible didn't mention us)

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this while listening to Samson by Regina Spektor (which I recommend you listen to lots and lots because it just scrEAMS les amis), and I couldn't get the idea out of my head so I wrote it down i'm so sorry. It didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped but I'll share it anyway because I'm trash. 
> 
> I'm not sure exactly how they survived or why the guards retreated for a little while so just forgive that bit please if you can find it in your heart I'm sorry.

Enjolras had always prided himself on his clarity of mind, but now was no time for pride, and his mind was thick with ugly fog. He thought the world around him was probably silent again, but he could hear the screams now, muted as they were before by unshakable focus, and behind them he could hear the laughter of times past. It hit him like a brick wall - the fatigue, the guilt, the realisation that the loss had not been worth it. The guards had long since left, and somewhere in his mind Enjolras knew he needed to leave soon also, before more returned and finished what they started. He wasn't sure if he cared or not, though. With them the guards had taken his Guide, his Centre, his Poet, his Unlucky Charm, his Worker, his Urchin, and many other less prolific but no less important members of the ABC Society. Of his close friends, only Joly and Bahorel remained. He had heard them weeping, had heard Joly screaming through sobs for his friends to wake up, just wake up, the guards had gone now and they didn't need to pretend anymore. He heard Bahorel coax him away with some effort, himself wary of when the soldiers would return. There was also Grantaire, whom he had seen just after the silence fell. Grantaire, who had slept though everything, and yet realised more than Enjolras did as it had all unfolded before him. Grantaire, who had eyes red from sleep and undeniable tears, whose entire body had collapsed when he'd met Enjolras's own unfocused stare. Grantaire, who had stumbled over and extended a hand as if to check Enjolras was real before turning and leaving the room, not returning since. Enjolras wondered where he was now, and if he were capable of surprise at that moment, he would have felt just that at the realisation that he wanted him there, next to him. The cynic of all those in the circle that was now hardly more than a dot. He needed someone there, anyone. He was no longer a leader, with nobody to lead, and so he himself needed a guide. It had been no more than half an hour, and already he was drifting; weak and useless in the lonely, blood-soaked wreck of the cafe.

There was a noise, but Enjolras was too far away from his own mind and body to register it. Movement in the coner of his eye, but none from Enjolras. There were footsteps coming closer and Enjolras tried in vain to scramble back to himself, as if trying to wake from a coma. There was a voice saying his name impossibly gently,  wrapping him slowly back in the rough blanket of the present. Grantaire, face a strange mix of pain and relief, was crouching before him. Enjolras met his eyes, but could say nothing. He spoke with his expression and understanding was returned in Grantaire's soft green gaze.

"I know, Enjolras. I know. But we have to go. They left not because they were beaten, but because they knew they couldn't be. They will return, and you will be forced to leave this place through blood beside none other than myself, and I shouldn't wish that upon anyone, let alone yourself. I shan't leave without you, you must come with me now. I left you just now, I did not want to, I could barely do it, but I did, and I left to find a safe route out. If you will let me, I will lead the way and no more blood will be shed today." Grantaire stood and extended a hand. "Do you permit it?" he asked, and Enjolras knew what the question entailed. He was asking not just for Enjolras to allow him to lead them both out, but for Enjolras to allow himself to be taken into Grantaire's care. Even in his numb state, Enjolras was under no illusion; he knew that not only did he need care, but that he wanted it, no matter how selfish it made him feel. And from one of his only remaining friends, even if that friend was Grantaire, how could he refuse? Their hands met, and Enjolras was pulled up to be lead silently out of the cafe, along Grantaire's safe route.

The unspoken agreement and mutual understanding between them meant that neither needed to say anything as Grantaire's rooms appeared to Enjolras to materialise around them. He felt the absence of Grantaire's palm against his own but did not react, was unable to, as Grantaire clicked the door shut and turned to look at Enjolras. There was hesitance in his posture, as if he wanted to do something, say something. Enjolras remained blank, simply staring at a far corner of the room. He was directed towards Grantaire's spare bedroom, and only one of them bid the other goodnight as the door closed between them.

Neither slept. Grantaire, mourning the loss of his friends and Enjolras' loss of self, lit a candle and sat beside it on his bed. Tears threatened to fall as he absently dipped each finger into the melting wax, the pain grounding him before it dried and peeled off. His eyes found themselves locked on the wall that hid Enjolras from him. It hid from him the way Enjolras had curled up against the door, defeated. It hid the tears shed and the names whispered. It hid the shaking shoulders and balled fists. The wall hid the way he stayed like that until he was heaving in the corner and the way he forced himself to stand, looking at himself in a grimy mirror. He was unsurprised when he was disgusted by what he saw.

Enjolras wiped his face, trying to regain composure for the sake of his friends. Removing clothes until he was standing before his reflection in just his trousers, Enjolras whispered apologies to each of his lost friends and to the hole they would leave in the world. He threw the crumpled garments out of the window, feeling undeserving of such luxury. Next he rubbed at his hands until they were clean of dust and gunpowder, wanting not to wear memories of his friends' deaths, but to celebrate in his heart the lives they had lead. Enjolras and his reflection stared at eachother, each feeling as powerless and undeserving as the other, until they both reached for a pair of blunt scissors lying on a small dresser beside the mirror. Trying to keep his breaths steady and his steps sure, Enjolras took them with him across the room and out of the door.

Grantaire's candle had almost burned out when his attention was drawn to his bedroom door being gently opened. Enjolras said nothing as he crossed the room and took the candle from Grantaire, putting instead in his hands the scissors he had brought. He took a shaky breath and sat on the bed, back facing Grantaire, who understood but wished he didn't. Grantaire looked at the scissors in his hand, turning them over as he shook his head.

"Enjolras, I-"

"Grantaire, please," came the gentlest interruption he had ever received. "I need you to do this for me." Grantaire looked down at the blades, dull and speckled with rust. He knew he could never say no to Enjolras. He nodded, if only for himself.

He could imagine the way Enjolras would have this done; harshly, quickly, because he thought he didn't deserve any better. The thought made Grantaire's chest clench, so he put the scissors carefully in his lap and shuffled closer behind Enjolras. His hands came up to the long golden curls cascading around pale shoulders, fingers combing through them slowly. Slowly, gently. Comfortingly. He started at the tips, brushing out knots and dust, trying to hold back tears once more. Calloused fingers worked tenderly though soft hair for what could have been years but felt like seconds. Grantaire brushed out the powder and sweat with his fingers, and combed out dried blood with them too, before they reluctantly picked up the scissors which then began to cut. Lock by lock, tumbling down Enjolras' back as tears down Grantaire's cheeks until the sheets were covered in spun gold. With his hair short, uneven, and spiking upwards, Enjolras appeared to Grantaire to be no less beautiful, but immeasurably more human. Wordlessly, he scooped up as much hair as possible, treasuring it while he still could as he carried it out to his dustbin.

They spent the rest of the night together beneath Grantaire's sheets, neither speaking when Grantaire's arms cradled Enjolras, nor when they both began to weep quietly, nor when the sun rose and their lips came together. There were no words, yet nothing was left unsaid.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sure you did get it but just in case you didn't, he wanted all of his hair cut off to represent his weakness (like samson who gets his strength from his hair in the story) and because he felt like he didn't deserve anything at all


End file.
